No one looked up as I entered except the waitress, and after I pointed at Trent, she turned away. True to his nature, Trent had taken a table in the center of the place, not in the sun but close. Oddly enough, even though he didn’t fit in with the rough Weres and brooding witches smoking I-don’t-want-to-know-what, he didn’t look out of place. It might have been Jenks on the napkin dispenser.

“We can’t take all day with this,” Trent said as I pulled out the seat across from him, sitting down with a tired thump.

“We can skip your shower if you want,” I said, arranging my bag so I could see the lethal-amulet detector hanging off it.

Green eyes looking black in the dim light, he frowned. “I didn’t drive ninety miles an hour all night so you two could waste it under a shower-head.”

“I still have the dust from the arch in my hair,” I said, turning my mug over to hopefully get something in it soon. “I know we’re in a hurry. I want to get there as much as you do.”

Trent was silent, and Jenks looked between us, an unhappy expression on his face.

“You look tired,” I finally said when Jenks made a motion for me to say something.

Trent’s pinched brow eased. “I am,” he admitted, and Jenks perked up.

“Me, too,” he offered.

“I don’t mind driving for a while,” I said, trying to catch the waitress’s eye.

“That’d be nice, Rache,” Jenks said snidely, hands on his hips and slipping a silver dust. “Since you’ve only driven about two hundred miles so far.”

“No,” Trent offered. “You need to stay hands free in case the coven…” He hesitated, lifting a shoulder and letting it fall. “In case the Withons send someone else,” he finished.

“Yeah, okay,” Jenks said, but I was surprised he’d taken Trent’s side in the first place.

The waitress finally came forward, two pots in her hands. She looked about sixty and smelled of both Were and witch, so I couldn’t easily tell what she was. She had cowboy boots on and an apron, wearing both like they were comfortable slippers. “Morning, folks,” she said, her sharp-evaluation look clearly trying to peg us as well. “Regular or decaf?”

“Um, regular,” I said, and Trent put a hand over his mug.

“Decaf,” he said, and the smell of the coffee rolled over the table as she poured first mine, then Trent’s. Jenks flew to my cup and dipped a pixy-size portion out, the waitress watching the entire time. She looked suspicious, not charmed, and I guessed that she had had dealings with pixies before.

“What can I get you?” she said as Jenks lifted from the rim of my cup and I took a sip.

“Oh God, this is good,” I said, and the woman beamed, her wrinkles folding in on themselves to make her look wind-beaten beautiful.

“Thank you, hon. We’ve got some batter in the back. Want me to have Len make up some pancakes for you?”